Spells & Starfire

Gentle boops for moots! @galacticsparkles @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream @mysticxmoonlight @the-lunarvoid @elandra-beltharys @alliskit @wyfyoyo @optimisticgrey @itspastmidnight @thesanguinesonnet @unovafarm @emmyandthetieflings @hollowharpwrites and @kt-catt

"Anthony…" That sinfully rich voice breathed out his false name like a prayer. "I've wanted to do that for an hour. Please, tell me you feel it, too. This tether between us-" Astarion cut him off with a sudden kiss, the darkness and desperation in the man's voice emboldening him. He surged forward with all his inhuman speed, taking the man's mouth with his, hands possessively grabbing that waist he'd eyed all night on stage. Byron melted into him, giving in to his urgency, opening his lips softly with a sigh when his tongue licked at the seam of them. Tongues entangled while he pressed the baron against the centuries-old oak tree that created the darkness in which they hid. His cock was straining against his wool trousers as he pressed it right into the baron's own, equally caged member.

1. What’s an idea, dynamic, or trope in your current work that feels naughty or self-indulgent? (Spicy answers 100% encouraged.)

In 12 Days of Debauchery, which is still being posted, it's all about embracing excess. For A!A, that has involved spiralling down into his worst impulses. For Byron, who in this fic is still quite young and hasn't quite fully embraced the hedonism he becomes known for (the conceit here is that Astarion was the architect of that), it's about letting go of expectation and rules imposed by others.

As a writer, the excess for me in this piece is the *poetry* more than the explicit smut. Though, there is plenty of that, heh.

For instance, when Byron bottoms for the first time, the entire experience is described in an extended metaphor of the ocean.

He was the shore, and Astarion swelled over him, into him, until there was no more way to divide the two, water and sand pulling down his mind into a heady well from which he could not escape. But the wave pulled back, though it did not do so cleanly. No, his shore cleaved to the swell, would not let go, and the resulting pull was not quite painful, not quite pleasure — something other; all his words failed to form around it, and yet he sang. A single note. A keening wail at the loss and a welcoming moan for its sudden return. Mind half-gone, he scrambled desperately for a mooring buoy in the roiling. He felt the sticky evidence that trailed down his stomach, proof of desire long denied. Though his prideful arrogance had already been washed away, each lie he'd told himself unwound by the very man who was quickly eroding his thoughts. The tide shifted in, and the world went white and heady, a fog of unrelenting bliss. The tide receded, and he was bereft. There was no in between, no time to think, only the joy and the strange, melancholic bliss of loss. The sensation overwhelmed. Life's great art is to feel, but he was consumed, shattered, so very full. He felt Astarion in every space he held: inside his lungs, the back of his throat where the breath hits, even in that strange space between gut and the small of his back. And then, the ocean became a tempest.

2. Is your oc a virgin, blushing maiden, or sexual fiend? or aro/ace? or something in between?

I'm writing Byron as 19. Already a man with a rakish reputation and a few bastards, not yet the unabashed hedonist with harems of men and women and a relationship with his sister.

He's discovering his depths. Finding that the bottom of that well is a great deal further down than he had ever dared plumb. Pun fully intended.

But once he pushes past the mostly externally-imposed discomfort, he's quite the fiend.

3. What’s your OC’s “I shouldn’t be this turned on by this” trigger?

Submission.

Byron is a Lord of the Peerage. He's supposed to be imposing, an authority. He LIKES commanding crowds at poetry readings or while doing a mischief.

The fact that he genuinely loves things like wearing a collar and light degradation is something he really has to work through.

4. What is your OC's hard NO?

Unfortunately, that is a spoiler for the final as-yet unpublished chapter of 12 Days.

5. What is the most debauched VP/Art you have ever created?

Oh. I would say most of my stuff is fairly tame. Though I do have some newer ones I've been working on with these two that involve shibari that will be quite spectacular, assuming I can work out some of the issues.

This fandom has me learning so many new skills.

I'm such a slut for the handholding.

6. What is the wildest NSFW smut you have ever thought up? Did you write it?

With these two, it's coming. Published? Ah, an interrogation turned into an unnegotiated knifeplay session ending in a bloody tittyfuck in Threadbare.

7. Do you have any crazy projects for the future?

Working on a sequel to my fic A Striking Resemblance that is a bananfish / bg3 crossover, that also crosses over two AUs.

And of course, I have like.. um... 8? active WIPs posting lol.

Oh! And my 3/4 written fic where Astarion isekais in to the Golden Girls.

I am so HYPED to finally be able to share this with yooouuuu!! Their first kiss took only 180k words (I love a slow-burn) and IT.IS.SO.SWEET!!

The commission was done by the truly spectacular blue13beast on instagram!

If you happened to read my post about growing up fat, it will be no surprise to you that, like Ada, I have struggled with my body image for a long time. So, to see Ada being held like this, to be desired and loved as she is (and not despite her size or fetishised for it) is so, so important to me! And look how BEAUTIFUL she is??

⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡

He straddled Halsin, facing away, his pace unhurried and melodious at first. But the more Halsin’s fingers trailed up the indent of his spine, the more his hands roamed the curve of his back and the firm swell of his ass, the quicker Isidro’s pace became. He did not want this to be over soon, but — the idea of Halsin watching him, watching his body move in the firelight — 

He looked over his shoulder; Halsin’s eyes were dark, his breath heavy. 

“Come undone for me, my heart. Let me see you.”

Halsin pressed his hand low on Isidro’s stomach, causing him to cry out, desperate; he called out Halsin’s name, a sob on the edge of it.

Isidro caught himself on his hands in the aftermath of his release; he was trembling. He did not think he could hold himself up much longer, but he did not wish to part from Halsin yet.

“By the Oak Father — Isidro,” Halsin groaned.

Isidro laughed, knowing Halsin was looking at where they were still joined. He blushed too; it turned him on. He swayed; he felt lightheaded. 

Halsin pulled Isidro back against him, holding him close in the afterglow for several moments. 

“Are you alright, little rose?” He asked, caressing Isidro's cheek. “You're trembling — like a newborn colt on unsteady legs.” 

Isidro blushed hard at that, blinking up at Halsin. He still felt lightheaded. He needed—

“You like this, don't you?” Halsin murmured, smiling softly, a smug edge to it, his fingers trailing up the inside of Isidro's thighs. “Feeling my seed drip down your thighs.”

Isidro gasped softly and nodded, his eyes fixed on Halsin's, while Halsin's slick fingers trailed further up and up—

Isidro gasped again, sharply this time, as Halsin brushed against him. 

“H–Halsin—”

“Is this what you need, my love?”

“Yes,” he answered, breathless. He sobbed as Halsin slipped a finger back into him. 

“Relax, little lion. Let me give you what you need.” 

“Please.”

Halsin shushed him gently and kissed the tears from his cheeks. He held Isidro close, his pace slow and gentle, only occasionally brushing against that sweet spot that made Isidro cry out and cling harder to him. 

Halsin kissed his forehead. “What a gift it is, to see the bold paladin trembling so sweetly in my arms.”

Isidro smiled a little, tears clinging to his lashes. “Halsin, you…you make me feel so safe.”

“Isidro—” He seemed to want to speak, but was overcome with an intensity of emotion, and instead kissed Isidro breathless. He finally pulled back, and rested his forehead against Isidro’s. “To hear I bring you such comfort — I cannot express what joy that brings me, my heart.”

Isidro cupped his face, his thumbs brushing across his cheeks. “I want to bring you comfort too, Halsin—”

Sasha's eyes slid down to the key, which was now trembling between Astarion's turncoat fingers, and a tear spilled down their cheek.

"She seems a lovely, fiery foil to your ethereal beauty, and the perfect size to fit snugly in your embrace. Unlike…"

"Don't finish that sentence."

"…me."

Astarion's fingers swept up into his wild curls, tugging at them. How was it Sasha could possess an abundance of talents and wonderful qualities—a gifted tailor, a natural eye for art and beauty, a sharp wit—and yet be so infuriatingly inept at recognizing those values? Or were they being purposely obtuse? Whatever it was, Sasha's inner saboteur was a stalwart figure in their psyche.

"My taran…" Astarion groaned as he paced to their tiny dining table—now enhanced with a second chair, he'd noticed with a flutter in his chest—and back to where Sasha stood, shivering slightly in their skimpy lingerie.

What could he possibly say to get through to them? Or were they going to have this same conversation ad nauseam?

"Erm…yes?"

The hopeful note that crept into their voice chimed like a noontime bell, clearing the fog crawling through Astarion's mind. He realized it didn't matter. Not even a bit. In a perfect world, of course, Sasha's internal looking glass would clearly reflect their inner and outer beauty. But it seemed their mirror was as cracked and beaten as the countless mirrors Father had shattered in his manors.

In that moment Astarion resolved to be their reflection. He would have this conversation as many times as Sasha needed to, and he would tell them every time how wrong they were. He approached once more, hands at the ready but refraining from reaching.

"Lia may be beautiful and quick-witted, but there is one glaring issue she cannot ever hope to overcome: she is not you."

"…Oh."

"Moreover, what makes you think I wish to have someone who fits snugly in my arms like a stuffed animal or pretty doll? What if…" he closed the distance, but rather than wrapping his arms around Sasha he turned, guiding their hands across his chest and stomach. "…I wish to be the one who fits perfectly into someone's embrace? Would that be unthinkable?"

Sasha's lower hand pressed him closer before beginning to work the remaining sections of tucked blouse out from his waistband until they were able to slide beneath it, palm hot against his skin.

The sensation scrambled Astarion's mind so thoroughly that he lost the thread of his thoughts. Head lolling back against Sasha's shoulder, he allowed himself to get swept up in the overwhelming rightness of their touch before he attempted to patch the rubble of his thoughts back into a solid shape.

"What if I wish for an equal partnership built on friendship, understanding, and love? Hmm? What if, rather than pretending to be some stoic protector and provider, I wish to be cherished and adored, showered with gifts and affection as I so clearly deserve?"

"…You do deserve that…" Sasha murmured, sounding remorseful.

"Yes! I do! Not enough people recognize that," he huffed. "But you do."

"You deserve so much more than I could ever have the means to give you. Not even my duchy or all the Amastacia family riches would be enough."

Fingers swished across Astarion's nipple under his shirt, the pebbled cluster of nerves radiating a comforting pleasure with each pass.

"Keep them! I've more of my own riches than I could possibly need in my very long lifetime. You offer something else I want that is far rarer and more precious anyhow."

"My thick cock and crippling anxiety?"

"Ha! At this point I would perish without the former, but I would banish the latter in a heartbeat if I had the power, darling. But no, not what I had in mind.

"I see in you a kindred soul. You know precisely how it feels to be stuck in your father's shadow, hungry to show the world who you are yet cursed to keep so much hidden lest you be misunderstood. But you make me feel safe enough to put my full self on display in all my messy, gorgeous, imperfect glory. You…understand me. And unless I have misread you, you have little interest in my title, my wealth, or my father's legacy. You—"

"—I just want you."